


the mysterious stranger may (probably) be Death.

by rainonherwindow



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Ancient Roman Religion & Lore
Genre: Gen, Humour, essentially crack tbf, hbd bro!!! TAKE THIS OFFERING, i said thanatos rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 16:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21413452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainonherwindow/pseuds/rainonherwindow
Summary: “Oh really?” Thanatos scowled at Hypnos. “How ‘bout you try being taken for Morpheus fifty separate jobs a week?”“Hey, hey, hey,” Hypnos brandished the bundle of lavender in his hands. “It’d be an honour to be mistaken for my son. You know how hard he works?”-----Existing as an underappreciated immortal is trying.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	the mysterious stranger may (probably) be Death.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_dot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dot/gifts).

> a super, duper late birthday present for the light of my life @the_dot  
happy belated baps sweets!!!! hope this drabble lives up to hopes <3

It was a time long awaited, he thought. The sickness had been slow, wracking his old bones for years, and now, finally, he could rest. Age had never been good on him, not the way youth had. _ Oh, _how he craved his smooth, golden mien from those younger years. If the Underworld did not once more grace him with the dashing, radiant form of his heyday, Timotheos - blessed be his immortal soul - fancied he may riot right through the Fields of Asphodel.

As it was, he currently looked much like he had upon death: wrinkled, sagging, and crooked-backed. Timotheos supposed a ride over the Styx would surely fix that - if he could _ reach _the darned place, that was. He had been waiting, hovering over his own deathbed, for what must’ve been the better part of an hour, and he was growing mighty fed up of staring at his own sallow, wizened corpse.

“Timotheos, Son of Dimetrios: born sixty-two years previous in Athens, Attica. Cause of death: age and illness.”

Timotheos jumped higher than Hermes’ winged sandals could ever have carried him. Behind him, floating a good two feet above the stone-slabbed floor, was a shadowy figure. The figure was cloaked all in a black that seemed to roll off him endlessly, and then endlessly fade into the aether. It was enough for Timotheos to grow rather flustered. He clutched his heart and prayed to Athena. He knew his patron goddess would forgive his sins and protect him in this moment - he had been a busy man, after all, he could hardly be expected to always find time to visit her temple.

The figure looked up; lowered its hood. A grizzled face appeared from within the darkness, and Timotheos let out a cry.

“Please do not harm me, Lord, for I have prayed for Lady Athena’s protection, and she shall surely grant you no lenience!”

“For the love of-” came an equally grizzled voice. “Athena doesn’t care about your shallow soul, my man, so get up and stop grovelling. You’re going to trigger my migraines, I can feel it.”

With upmost trepidation, Timotheos glanced back at the haunting figure. Its face was unimpressed: its scarred nose wrinkled with what, mayhaps, was distaste.

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Timotheos disregarded the remark.

“Of course!” It had all become clear now. Timotheos threw himself into a bow, burning with shame. “My deepest, greatest apologies, my Lord! I never meant to cause offense! You appearance merely gave me pause, fearsome Lord Hades!”

There was a moment of silence. Timotheos trembled on his knees, not daring to look up lest his soon-to-be rejuvenated face be smoten beyond repair.

“You know what,” came that grumbling voice once more, “this is the tenth time this week. I’m exhausted.”

That truly _ did _give Timotheos pause.

“I-I’m sorry, My Lord?”

But the cloaked figure was already fading - melting back into the aether from whence it came. “Take the first turning to the West; Charon’ll find you.” The voice was distorted, as if thrown across a great distance. “Eventually.”

Then the figure was gone, as quickly as it had arrived, and Timotheos was left baffled - barely instilled with fear of the gods.

“‘First turning to the West’?” He squawked, staring down into his own decrepit face once more. “The West?! Do I _ look _like I possess a compass?”

* * *

Soul number one-hundred-and-twenty of the day was a middle-aged woman from Egypt. A simple but kind-hearted fisherwoman, she had lived alone in a quiet little hut just off the Nile, selling her catches in exchange for ripe fruit and grains. An easy soul to end the day, thankfully, and Thanatos was pretty psyched to let Hypnos take the sleep shift once it hit eight o’clock.

The woman in question was sobbing into the river when they arrived - at least, as much as a ghost with no physical form _ could _sob. It was quite sad to watch, really. Thanatos figured it would only be fair to let the dead produce some kind of phantom tears, but alas. They could take it up with Hades, but that honestly sounded like much more effort than it was worth.

“Nedjem, of the Hut By The Nile: born thirty-two years previous, in Dendera, Egypt. Cause of death: cobra bite.”

The crying woman looked up, blinking large, tearless eyes up at them. She didn’t move for a moment. Thanatos met her gaze, and for half a heartbeat the two just stared awkwardly at each other. 

“Nedjem, of the Hut By The Nile?”

Suddenly, Nedjem threw herself onto the ground (well - floating several feet over the ground) and bowed her head.

“Mighty Osiris,” her voice was teary, “please grant me forgiveness! I have no one to tend to my body. Is the Underworld beyond my reach if I have not the preparations?”

Oh, not this _ again- _

Thanatos took a second to pray for patience - not that it’d make a smidge of difference; Hades, that bastard, had a sucky sense of humour - before returning their attention to the quivering fisherwoman. 

“Uh, no. It’s your lucky day, I guess. Your situation has been processed through HR and no fine is required for non-mummification. Your soul will be judged the same of all others.”

Upon hearing this, the woman began to weep even harder. She threw herself bodily_ (ghostily? _Ugh, the spectre-state really gave Thanatos a headache) at their legs and cried into their Robe of Darkness.

Thanatos felt their eyes twitch under their hood. This was supposed to be an _ easy _ end to a long day, but now look where they were: misnamed, _ again, _ and forced to swing by the drycleaners after work. _ Patience, _ they reminded themselves, _ is the virtue of a working immortal. _

Their hands hovered unsurely. What was the etiquette here?

“Um, if you would kindly release my robe I can - er - guide you to the boatman, who will take you the rest of the way.”

“B-boatman, great Osiris?”

“Oh, man,” Thanatos rubbed the bridge of their nose. “I’m not- I’m not Osiris, sorry.”

“Oh!” The woman gasped, and for a second Thanatos thought she’d actually _ recognised _them. “My deepest, deepest apologies, fair Anubis!”

“I’m- you know what? Whatever-” (obvious lack of a dog head _ aside-) _ “That’s better than nothing. Right this way.”

* * *

Perhaps it was fate; perhaps luck; or perhaps it was simply destiny. 

But whatever it was, Crispus knew he was ready for this. _ Entitled, _ even. How could he fear death when death would surely _ quiver _before him? He, the greatest General of his generation? Nay, of the Empire itself!

Sure, he may have been slain by the sword of an enemy, but it had been a _ mighty _sword - wielded by a worthy opponent! That Celt barbarian had been strong, fearsome, and adept with a blade, thank you very much.

And so Crispus, standing straight and tall over his freshly-erected headstone, was _ ready _for this.

“Spurius Cassianus Crispus, born twenty-seven years previous. Cause of death: stabbed in the armpit.”

He turned, huffing sharply. _ The armpit. _ It had been a _ noble _ stabbing, _ worthy _ of his greatness. That was a hill he would die on. Rather, die on _ again._

“Nay, Deity,” he said, upon seeing the shadowy figure hovering several paces behind him. “T’was a warrior’s death. There is no nobler way to die.”

The figure drew themself up and glanced down at the odd-looking book they held. They tapped it decisively.

“Nah, says here you were surprised from behind while pointing down a hillside.”

“_Surveying _ is a much more apt description, in my opinion-”

“By the daughter of a tribe chief - oh, nice!”

“My _ Lord- _”

“This is one for the books, honestly. I mean, looking over your life record- an _ historic _payback by the Fates-”

“My Lord Pluto!”

The deity snapped their book closed with a carrying _ thwack, _and it vanished into a swirl of shadow. They levelled Crispus with a look that shrivelled his bravado. He suddenly felt very, very small.

“Thanatos.”

Momentarily, Crispus feared his tongue had grown numb. He forced his mouth to move deliberately, feeling his knees wobble. “A- A thousand apologies, Lord Mors. I merely forgot - very briefly I may add - of your-”

Death waved their hazy, gloved hand. “Yeah, yeah, save your speech, General. I’ve heard it before. I’m on a bit of a tight schedule here too; I’m meant to be in Greece in-” they paused, checked their wrist. Why? Crispus didn’t wish to know. “-Seven minutes.”

“I’m- I’m sorry, my Lord Mors?”

“Se-ven min-utes.” They tapped their wrist again. Crispus shivered. What did it _ mean? _ A warning? A _ threat? _“And time is money, my murderous man, so do hurry on over here.”

Had it only been mere moments since Crispus had felt such courage? Such surety? He could barely remember the feeling. Where had it gone? Death was death! He was a _ military _man, Jupiter blast it, and no god could shake his battle-forged soul!

Crispus straightened his spine - shot it through with steel and grit. “Are you to take me to the Ferryman, unknowable Mors? I shall go with nary a touch of fear in my heart!”

For some reason, Crispus got the impression that Death was unimpressed with his display, but he shook this off. That had been a parting speech to grace the history books, and he knew it.

_ Spurius Cassinius Crispus, a General who feared neither god nor mortal, went with nary a touch of fear in his heart. _

“Whatever you say, my man,” said Death.

* * *

Hades’ throne room was as colourful as ever. Winter always brought the summer down under - life loyally following at the Queen of the Underworld’s feet - and the whole palace burst with flowers and shoots. 

“Fifty times this week!” Thanatos threw his ring-binder onto the floor, narrowly missing several sprigs of green that sprung up from between the black marble slabs. “_ Fifty!” _

“Mind the dahlias!” Persephone tutted from her squat by a budding sunflower. “They’ve just started blooming.”

Thanatos couldn’t help but feel a small swell of embarrassment. “Sorry, my Lady.”

Hades, for his part, only looked back Thanatos tiredly, hair his usual bedhead of curls. A tuft of ferns danced over his shoulder. 

“Fifty what now?”

“Mis-names!” Thanatos cried, gesticulating wildly with their arms. “Fifty times I’ve had people mistake me for some other deity! _ Fifty whole times! _Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to have mortals think I’m you?”

Hades raised an eyebrow. “Me? They take you for _ me?” _

“Oh yeah. I’ve gotten some others too, mind - but yours is _ definitely _ the name that comes up the most _ .” _

“Come on now, Than.” Thanatos side-eyed their brother, who was watching the entire scene with great amusement from the window seat. “Fifty out of the hundreds of dead you see each week is practically nothing.”

“Oh really?” Thanatos scowled at Hypnos. “How ‘bout _ you _ try being taken for _ Morpheus _fifty separate jobs a week?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Hypnos brandished the bundle of lavender in his hands. “It’d be an _ honour _to be mistaken for my son. You know how hard he works?”

“Well how about that,” Hades, leaning on the arm of his throne, rested his chin on a fist and smirked. “You hear that, Thanatos? An _ honour.” _

“With all due respect, my Lord, you’re on thin fucking ice.”

The throne room’s many summer blooms bounced with Persephone’s spluttering cackle.


End file.
